


Domesticated

by froggy (therealfroggy)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: M/M, Power Play, Rough Sex, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:04:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealfroggy/pseuds/froggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abruzzi, T-Bag and good manners in Sicily. Not canon-compatible after s1, really, but who cares when there are sexytiems?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domesticated

“Ya know, I never quite got you Italians and your wine-drinkin'. Ain't y'all got liver damage before turnin' thirty? Sure looks like some o' ya got ulcers.”

“John.”

“Theodore, leave.”

“Aw, come on! Leave? Ya just gonna kick me out?”

“Go wait in the car, Theodore, or I'll smash your skull into the wall behind you.”

Glaring at Abruzzi, T-Bag got up and sauntered out of the Italian restaurant. He sat down in the black convertible, sulking until finally, an hour or so later, Abruzzi came out to join him. The taller man started the engine, and they left the Sardinian street in silence save for the roaring engine.

They reached the farm mansion, and Abruzzi's son came to park the car. T-Bag could hear the sounds of the people working the olive groves surrounding the mansion, and wondered if John would make him work out there, like he'd threatened the last time the murderer did something wrong.

John Abruzzi was living rich on his farm, using it as cover for numerous traditional mob activities. T-Bag, though once a sworn enemy to the don, was employed as right-hand man (though ironically lacking a certain similar part of his anatomy) and physical diversion.

He had to confess he had been shocked, to say the least, to find that in his job offer. He could understand why Abruzzi would want him in his crew – he killed quickly and unceremoniously, and heard things which escaped others – but why would the mobster want him and not some young, Sardinian girl with breasts like a pair of _boconnottos_?

The answer had shocked T-Bag into acceptance. Not only was Abruzzi gay; he wanted T-Bag and had all along, from what the Alabamian deduced. And his wife? She, apparently, was sleeping her way through half the farm hands once a week. It was some sort of silent arrangement.

The hall of the house was cooler than the hot summer sun had been, and T-Bag was glad. He was used to some heat, being a southerner, but Sardinia in June was just over the top, even for him.

Abruzzi didn't seem to mind, though.

“I thought I told you not to speak without my permission when we're in company,” Abruzzi said, taking off his jacket. “And I definitely know I told you _never_... to insult my business partners.”

“He started it,” T-Bag said, shrugging. He didn't like it when people suggested he was inbred trailer trash.

“Look at me, Theodore. Do you see a man who cares? If you do, you're not only stupid, but blind. I don't care if they call you all seven kinds of crazy – which would be nothing but stating fact, by the way – but you will not insult my business partners. Are we very clear?”

“Crystal,” T-Bag said flatly, popping a few grapes into his mouth from a dish on a small table.

Abruzzi looked at him for a long time, face expressionless. When he finally spoke, T-Bag felt a shiver run down his back with the implications of it. “I don't think we are. It looks like we'll have to go over this all over again.”

***

“Keep your mouth shut, Theodore. You are not to make a sound.”

T-Bag drew a rugged breath. Abruzzi wanted him to keep his mouth shut when he did _that_? Like hell he would!

“John,” he moaned, knowing the taller man liked it when he moaned.

“I said...” Abruzzi stopped nibbling at his hip bones and caught his eyes with a demanding stare. “Keep. Your mouth. Shut.”

Then he bit hard at the flesh just over T-Bag's pelvis. The murderer gasped, but didn't make any other sounds.

“Good,” Abruzzi said, reaching for the thin length of bamboo lying next to them on the bed. On Abruzzi's bed. T-Bag was rarely allowed in it; they usually found other places for their trysts.

Abruzzi turned the shorter man over, instructing him to get on his knees. T-Bag eagerly did.

“Not a sound unless I tell you to,” the mobster hissed, then thrust two dry fingers into T-Bag's unprepared body. The murderer groaned.

The bamboo lashed down across his back. T-Bag cried out in surprise.

“Pay attention, Theodore,” Abruzzi said softly, then added another finger. T-Bag bit the pillow to stop the pained groan of pleasure that was trying to force its way out of his throat.

“I am going to fuck you, and you will not moan. You will not speak. You will not make any sound that I do not allow you to make.”

T-Bag nodded, the sheet bunched up in his fists. And then there was just Abruzzi; John Abruzzi pressing hard into him with something so much larger than the fingers, calloused hands wrenching his hips back on a hard cock, and hot breath against his back, panting.

T-Bag's head was swimming with the sweet mixture of pain and desperate need. Abruzzi began rocking, thrusting, and the slightest of whimpers escaped T-Bag's throat. It was drowned in the pillow and Abruzzi never heard it, or if he did, he didn't give the smaller man another lashing.

“Stroke yourself, Theodore,” Abruzzi demanded, their hips smacking together. “Silently.”

T-Bag did as he was told. Without a sound, he took himself in hand and stroked frantically. The fabric of the pillow case tore between his teeth.

“Come,” Abruzzi demanded. “Come with my cock in your ass... and not a sound!” he admonished when a strangled sound of pleading wrestled from the Alabamian's lips. The bamboo cane lashed again. T-Bag writhed, but did not scream.

Feeling a hard thrust to his prostate, T-Bag followed orders and came. He spattered the sheets, clenched around Abruzzi, his teeth digging painfully into his lip. He made no sound.

“Good,” Abruzzi groaned, thrusting faster. “Good, oh, Teddy, good boy...”

When Abruzzi flooded him with lust, T-Bag begged for the cane again with a simple word. “John!”

He got it. But he never made another sound until Abruzzi dismissed him after kissing away the blood from his bottom lip and soothing the teeth marks with his tongue.

***

“You've been good, Theodore. No speaking out of place. Good. You seem to be learning your place. But Theodore...”

Abruzzi's voice slithered into T-Bag's ear and trailed off. The smaller man held his breath.

“You still need some training. Eating with your fingers, going to a dinner without a neck tie? I expect better from my most trusted associate.”

T-Bag's head spun with the promise inherent in those words.

He was awfully confused when Abruzzi took him to the family's tailor.

He was staring at his reflection, dumbstruck, when the bill was paid and he was standing there in an Italian silk suit, charcoal grey, with a pale blue starched cotton shirt and a midnight blue neck tie. Everything fit him like a glove.

“You will never attend a business dinner without a suit and tie, Theodore,” Abruzzi said, looking at T-Bag with lust burning in his eyes. Then the tailor was dismissed and T-Bag found himself on his knees, sucking Abruzzi's cock, because the taller man was turned on beyond reason at seeing T-Bag in that suit.

***

That night, T-Bag was taught how to hold a wine glass properly. How to eat pasta with proper manners. And all the while, Abruzzi was treating him just like a son or a protégé, someone to be trained and educated. T-Bag was confused again. What about the... informal training that he wanted so badly, had thirsted for ever since Abruzzi had broken him in?

“Remove your clothing. All of it. Place it on that chair,” Abruzzi suddenly commanded.

T-Bag flinched. Right then and there? They were in the dining room!

“Now.” It was not a voice to be questioned. Hurriedly, though mindful to place it all over the chair as Abruzzi had instructed, T-Bag complied. He felt somewhat self-conscious standing in the Abruzzi family's dining room without a shred of clothing, but did as he was told. Without a sound.

“On your back on the table.”

He did as he was told.

He shivered when Abruzzi moved to stand over him, looking down at him with unconcealed desire on his face. “Good, Theodore. You've been good.”

Abruzzi merely opened his fly and bent down to catch T-Bag's lips in a rough kiss. T-Bag sighed into the other man's mouth and arched his neck, trying to increase the contact.

“I really think you are learning,” Abruzzi breathed, then moved close to T-Bag's ear to whisper in it, “Aren't you, Theodore?”

“Yes,” T-Bag breathed, spreading his legs wider to allow Abruzzi all the room he would ever want. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Abruzzi said again, then positioned himself to thrust into the lithe body beneath his own. “So what will you wear to dinner tomorrow?”

“Ah... a suit and tie,” T-Bag moaned, feeling Abruzzi's hard flesh sink slowly into him. “An' the blue shirt.”

“And how will you hold your glass?” The question was a mere pant into his ear, and T-Bag shivered.

“By the stem,” he said, bucking against the hips driving against his own.

“And what... will you not... under – oh Dio – under any circumstances... do?”

“Talk!” T-Bag cried, shuddering as Abruzzi his his prostate again and a large hand closed around his throbbing erection. “Talk, insult people, God, John, I ain't talkin' less ya tell me to, oh -”

“Enough,” Abruzzi bit out, thrusting harder. “Be quiet, Teddy.”

And T-Bag was silent. He never said a word or made a sound; not as he came hard with Abruzzi driving into him, not as Abruzzi roared with pleasure and filled him with his come, not as the taller man finally kissed him hard and pulled out.

And not during the next dinner, either, though he was sorely tempted. Abruzzi was such a good teacher.


End file.
